© Copyright 2005 - Jezziebelle - Used by permission
Storycodes: M/f; kidnap; bond; susp; wrap; latex; catsuit; collar; machine; insert; toys; torment; climax; reluct/nc; XX
For the last bondage scenario in this story, I am indebted to the wonderful website www.houseofgord.com and a picture I once saw there. I usually come up with my own ideas, but this one is so damn cool I had to pay it tribute!
I awoke in darkness. Last time I’d been conscious, I’d been in a light, bright, sterile environment. Now, my eyes opened to nothing but blackness and a soft, musty smell arose from what felt like old floorboards beneath me. Disconcerted, I closed my eyes again and concentrated on the sensations from the rest of my body. I was chilled from inertia – from lying on the floor in a strange place for god knows how long, and naked to boot. I could feel the air circulating over my skin, and the vaguely warm, rough surface of the wooden floor beneath me.
As I tried to move my hands, a thrill of something that was half fear, half something else slipped down my spine. My fingers probed what felt like heavy leather cuffs round each wrist, connected by short chain, and each fastened with a metal hasp and a padlock. Investigating further, as my heartbeat rose another notch, it became clear that the cuffs were themselves connected to another chain that disappeared into the distance, presumably to the wall of this room.
I was still too groggy from the chemical that had knocked me out to follow the chain to its furthest end. I lay still, on my stomach, and tentatively moved my legs instead. Cuffed together, with about a foot of chain between them, but thankfully not attached to the wall. I shivered, mostly from cold, and curled up into a foetal position, to prevent myself losing any more heat. Concentrating on the basics might help me get through this.
My abduction had been swift and professional, and now the memory of it discouraged me from even trying to shout, or slip out of my bonds. No point in either of those two courses of action, I could tell. For an hour, maybe two, I drifted in and out of consciousness as the last dregs of anaesthetic left my system. In my more lucid moments, I thought about the reason why I was here. I knew precisely what it was.
Eventually, a sharp bolt of light fell across my face and I opened my eyes, only to close them again as the light stung my retinas. In the brief moment they had been open, I had recognised a door opening along the far wall of wherever I was. It closed swiftly, and the darkness became even more inky after the flash of light.
Though he moved almost silently, I knew instantly he was there, and a flash of adrenaline sent my pulse rate soaring. He padded on soft soled shoes towards me, as I held my breath and waited. Either he could see in the dark, or he had some kind of night vision gadget, because when he reached for me it was smooth and precise. When I felt his hand on my shoulder, I started and lashed out but too quickly he had pinned me down on my stomach and was pushing some kind of large, bulbous gag in between my teeth. I shouted indignantly into it, discovering my voice too late. Then, he reached above my head where my cuffed hands writhed; unlocking one of the cuffs from my wrist with strong hands that subdued my struggles far too easily, he relocked it in place with my hands behind my back.
Now that I was conscious, it was safe for him to bind me more securely – that much I could guess, but I couldn’t know how far he would take it.
He stood up and left me more helpless than before on the floor, pulling futilely at the cuffs and kicking myself for not talking when I had a chance. At work, we’d actually had an anti-kidnapping talk once: after all, there were many companies hell bent on breaking our security and getting their hands on our formula. The expert had told us to establish communication with any abductor as soon as possible, to make yourself seem more human in their eyes. I’d failed at that already.
A scraping sound, as if he was pulling something briskly across the floor... A second later, and he’d lifted me bodily onto a wooden high-backed chair, my cuffed hands draped over the back but otherwise not restrained to it. Then the overhead light flashed on, and I screwed my eyes shut till I could acclimatise to it.
‘Don’t move,’ he ordered as I slowly opened blinking eyes and looked him in the face.
This man, this tall, dark haired, dark clothed man with piercing eyes, had accosted me in my office late the night before, and ten seconds later I’d slumped to the ground, chloroform-doused handkerchief clamped immoveably over my mouth and nose. Now that I could see him properly, I saw his wickedly intelligent expression, his lean body, and the intent that gleamed from him like an aura. If you’re going to be kidnapped, I tried to joke to myself, let it be by a man like this… Naked, bound and gagged in his unflinching gaze, I damned my body for twitching with scared arousal. I could tell his eyes had lighted on my hardening nipples. Would a mindless thug have been better? More violent, probably, but less intimidating.
I sat up as straight as I could, and returned his gaze as levelly as possible, determined not to seem a pushover. I knew what he wanted. It was what we had been warned about and trained to prevent ever since ChemLabs had discovered the formula ahead of all its rivals. That formula, due to be recognised as our intellectual property by the patent office in less than 12 hours if no other contenders came forward, was imprinted in my memory more indelibly than my own name. It had taken five years of my life to develop, and now this man wanted to pull it from me.
Situated as I was, it was hard to remember that it was me who held the trump card.
We were in a small, bare room with breezeblock walls and a dusty wooden floor. No windows, only the single door which stood closed. A prison cell; an interrogation room.
He leant against the wall in front of me, and watched me for several minutes. Eventually, he spoke.
‘You know what I want,’ he said, in a cool voice that radiated control. I nodded slowly.
‘My employer has commissioned me to get the formula,’ he continued, ‘and I know precisely which buttons to press to get it. Your home computer is easy to hack,’ he commented nonchalantly and an icicle of despair shot through me: there were things hidden on my hard drive I never wanted anyone to see. Suddenly, the naked and bound thing made horrifying sense.
As if to confirm my suspicion, he slid a palm computer from a pocket and stepped towards me, holding it so I could see the glowing screen. On it was an image I had treasured for years: a dark haired woman, much like myself, cuffed hand and foot and held prisoner by an anonymous man. The look of fear and lust in her eyes had always intoxicated me…
He was speaking again, in the same casual tone, pulling the screen away. ‘Also, I happen to be looking forward to what I am going to do to you in order to get it. So you understand, this is not a chore for me. It’s a pleasure.’
I couldn’t hold his gaze any more. Lowering my head, I found myself shaking. I didn’t know how much I could take before I’d give up the formula. If he pushed me too far, I knew I could recite it faultlessly to save myself.
He returned to the edge of the room, and leaned against the wall in that infuriating, casual way. ‘I am sure you are aware that I could easily use more traditional methods of extorting knowledge, but I am not a criminal and neither is my employer. I walk on the edge of the law and my methods recognise the individuality of the person in hand.’ He flashed me a wicked grin. ‘I think you can imagine what the next few hours might have in store for you.’
I could imagine, all too well. If he really had accessed my hard drive, my every demon was about to jump up and bite me. I shuddered, and tried to blank out my mind.
He stepped towards me, and pulled me to my feet. Standing a good six inches taller than me, he was an imposing sight. With a hand grasping my upper arm, he led me out of the room.
The chain between my cuffed ankles hobbled me, and I had to shuffle along looking at the ground. No chance of making a break for it. When we stopped, we were in a cavernous room: an old warehouse, I guessed, with old boxes and pieces of equipment lying around. Breezeblock walls, wooden floor, metal roof; an aura of disuse, and threat. He must have found this place specially. I shivered.
He worked fast, but with an air of enjoyment that scared me more than anything. He walked me to a grey dust sheet that lay spread out near the centre of the room and pushed me down onto it, on my knees then lying down on my front. I struggled down, hampered by the cuffs, and landed roughly.
Pinning me with his legs as he knelt astride me, he released my ankles and re-bound them with lots of padding into fatter, stronger cuffs that held my legs tightly together. Rolling me over onto my back so my arms were crushed beneath me, he let me watch as he secured a chain to the cuffs round my ankles, and stood up.
I kept my eyes on him, watching him move to some kind of dashboard with various buttons and levers. I saw him move a lever, and heard a clanking noise somewhere above me.
As my ankles began to rise into the air, I realised the noise had a lot to do with me.
Suddenly frantic, I began to struggle but in vain. My screams were muffled by the gag, my cuffed hands unable to get a purchase on anything. The lifting equipment had already raised my legs so far only my bottom was on the ground. I slid along the dust sheet as the chain pulled me higher and higher, my bottom lifting from the ground as I shouted into the gag once more. My shoulders left the ground, and then I was swinging freely upside down, the blood rushing to my head as fear and arousal vied for my attention.
I’d had a series of pictures of this kind of scenario saved on my computer, protected by a password even from my open-minded boyfriend. I’d gazed at them many times, shuddering with excitement and trepidation as I imagined what it would be like to be that woman…
He was playing my deepest desires and secrets against me. I call that playing dirty.
He stopped the machine when my head was three feet from the ground, my hair hanging straight down, my arms leaning out behind me. After the metal clanking, the silence was ominous. I concentrated on my breathing, which was impeded by the gag, as he pushed my arms back towards me, and taped them into position with my hands in the small of my back, using duct tape.
I span helplessly on the end of the chain, slowly one way, then the next. When I opened my eyes, I could see him moving another piece of equipment close to me. Upside down, I couldn’t fathom what it might be, but it rose to higher than my feet.
Stepping onto a box so he could reach, he grasped my ankles and began to wind something cool and clammy around them. Straining my neck muscles, I bent my head to look up at him and saw a roll of clear plastic beginning to envelop my legs. He gave the chain a spin, and it wrapped round and round my legs as I turned in the air. It had a fastening that allowed me to spin without knotting up and shortening the chain. Then he secured my cuffed ankles to an arm that protruded from the machine, so I was held more stably.
He grinned down at me, hooked the roll of plastic into the machine, and stepped down from the box. Looping a rope under my arms, he ran it to the floor and secured it there so that I was held taut, unable to sway. But, as I soon realised, like fastening above the one below allowed for a rotating movement.
I didn’t watch, but I could feel. The machine started with a humming sound, and slowly, ever so slowly, I could feel my ankles being securely gripped and a motor began to turn. As I rotated, the taut plastic wrapped itself around me. One layer, one rotation didn’t feel too bad, but it didn’t stop: two, three, four rotations and my feet and ankles were stiffly compressed, my toes pointed to the ceiling by the pressure of the plastic.
As the roll of plastic descended by a few inches and began wrapping my calves, I began to struggle. He was watching me, and enjoying it: even upside down I could see and read his face. Cursing into the gag, I span helplessly, the clinging plastic working its way inch by taut inch down my dangling body.
By the time it reached my hips, my legs were secured vice-like in the plastic, knees unable to bend, ankles unable to flex. Struggling against the inevitable wore me out. As my waist and chest were incrementally covered and compressed, pulling me in so far it felt my sides would meet in the middle, I started concentrating on my breathing instead, trying to push my ribcage out to give me a little more room. I’m not sure it worked.
My breasts were crushed beneath the plastic before he stopped the machine – but only for a moment. He secured a tall, stiff collar around my neck to save me from strangulation, and started the machine again.
As the plastic wound round my chin, my mouth, my nose, I realised that – gagged as I was – he hadn’t given me a chance to say stop, I’ll give you the formula…
My lungs began to hurt as the plastic covered my eyes, and ran right over my forehead; and as he bent down and wrapped the loose ends carefully round my hair, which hung in a plastic-wrapped ponytail from the top of my head, I felt the strongest orgasm of my life wrack my body, shuddering against my bonds.
I don’t think I actually passed out, but I was probably close. I didn’t feel him poke a hole through the plastic to my nose, and only became aware when the cool air began trickling through in a lifesaving stream. I breathed shallowly out of necessity, my chest compressed by the tight wrapping, and my oxygen-parched body and brain slowly revived. I felt weak, and tingly all over, with the glowing remains of orgasm humming between my legs.
He’d released me from the machine and the chain, and I now lay half on my back, half on my side on the floor, eyelids pressed closed and so unable to see. After several minutes, I heard his voice beside my ear.
‘Now’s your chance to escape,’ he said, teasingly. ‘I promise I won’t stop you for the next half hour. Scout’s honour.’
I had to go for it, even if he was lying. I couldn’t let him drag the formula from me. My strength having returned, I flexed my muscles against the plastic.
It held me like an iron hand, squeezed immobile.. I tried to wriggle my arms, but they were welded to my back; my knees, locked straight; my abdomen, corsetted strongly. Angry and desperate, I threw myself into escaping, thrashing my limbs again my confines, trying to push a fingernail through the plastic.
I guess all he could see from the outside was a weak writhing; and as I caught the sound of him laughing, I subsided and let pent-up tears of frustration squeeze out under the plastic.
I sensed him bending over me, and heard him speak in my ear once again.
‘The formula?’ he asked. I dredged up a slight shake of my head. No way. Never…
‘Suit yourself,’ he replied cheerily, and slung me over his shoulder, taking me back to the room I had awoken in.
He left me there, wrapped up on the floor like an unwanted Christmas present.
After he carefully cut me out, more than an hour later, he’d left me for another hour to recover alone in the dark cell. I massaged my limbs and stretched sore muscles. When he returned, I had no fight left. As he picked me from the ground, I followed limply, gathering what mental energy I had to survive the next onslaught without giving up the formula.
He’d dressed me in a skin tight, black latex catsuit by stringing my arms above my head by only the thumbs, so I couldn’t struggle effectively without putting painful weight on my thumbs. Then he’d reversed the position, dangling me from my ankles so he could manoeuvre my arms into the sleeves as the blood rushed to my head and disorientated me too much to fight back. As I hung upside down, stretched out to the maximum, he wrapped a thick, leather corset around my waist and slowly, determinedly cinched it closed.
Lowering me to the ground, he roped my arms behind me and made me watch the screen of his palm computer as he opened up a video file and played it. I recognised it instantly. He’d taken it from my own hard drive – the section where I kept the things that half scared me to death whilst still being drawn to them. He watched me as I realised what was coming next, with a wicked grin on his face. I turned away and lay down on the ground, struck by internal vertigo.
Only a matter of hours to go. I’d resisted so far, but I knew my reserves were running low. I was tired, emotionally drained, physically abused. As he stepped towards me, I had to stifle a sob.
My hands were already bound behind me so fitting the arm binder posed no difficulty. It was stiff and heavy and laced up so tightly my elbows were drawn together behind me. Next came the hood: a three-quarter face affair that attached to a tall, stiff collar, and that, when strapped round my head, left only my eyes and nose visible.
With the help of a tube of lubricant, he slowly worked a butt plug deep inside me, followed by a fat dildo. Both were attached to a stiff, curved crotch strap that buckled onto the front and back of the corset. Each one protruded beyond the crotch strap, locked into specially cut holes so the ends could be accessed with the crotch strap in place.
He pushed my feet into long, stiff black boots with vertiginous heels before binding my legs tightly together from ankle to thigh with wide straps. And I was ready.
He swung me over his shoulder, and carried me out through the warehouse into a walled-in private yard, about fifteen metres square. It was daylight, but no one could see me. The walls were made from the outer walls of warehouses that clustered together, and were very high. Running round the edges of the yard was what can only be described as a miniature monorail-cum-ski lift. About ten feet from the ground, a rail ran in a loop, supported by fat metal struts that jutted from the walls. Attached to the rail at the point nearest where we stood was another metal contraption. It hung from a wheeled device that was designed to run round the rail. A strong-looking, large, square metal pole hung vertically downwards, welded stiffly to the wheeled motor on the rail above; protruding from it at a right angle were two similar metal poles, one above the other in parallel and pointing in the direction of the rail; and attached so that they could pivot up and down.
He stood me up facing the ends of the two horizontal poles and immediately wrapped a strap round my back, tying it off to the top of the two poles to help me stay balanced on my bound, high heeled feet. Then came a complicated arrangement of harnesses, buckles and straps that left me tightly secured to the contraption. I stood straight, with one metal pole sticking straight out forwards from the middle of my chest, and the other pointing forwards from lower down on my abdomen.
He then spent a long time fiddling with tubes and cables, delving between my tightly compressed thighs to reach the bottom ends of the butt plug and the dildo.
‘When you’re ready to talk, give me a shout,’ he said, and retired.
The motor gave a whine and started with ease. Above me, attached to the rail, the motor turned its wheels and began to creep along the rail. Beneath it, the vertical pole and its twin, hinged parallel poles to which I was attached, moved in time, pulling me after it.
With my feet bound, there was no question of walking to keep up. It was either bunny hop, or be dragged forcibly round the yard. If I lost my footing, I’d fall down onto my knees and still be pulled round. The two horizontal poles were hinged so they could move up and down. So I hopped along behind the motor, in tiny little steps.
It kept a steady speed, one I could keep up with. But the twist in the tail was the little hydraulic (I presumed) system now attached to the butt plug and dildo inside me. As I bent my knees to take a jump, the butt plug inside me expanded powerfully, whilst the dildo slid so deep it hit my cervix. As I jumped, straightening my legs, the butt plug and dildo retreated, but the butt plug must have had something else attached to it because at the peak of every jump, a tiny electric shock zapped me from within.
And when I landed, my knees bent again and the whole process started anew.
At first, I tried to bend my knees as little as possible: I took hundreds of tiny little hops, legs stiff, but I couldn’t keep up with the machine that way. As I nearly tripped, I had to take a big jump to catch up, a jump that sent the dildo so far inside me I thought it would burst through into my head, and the butt plug grew so fat I felt I would explode. With a desperate moan, I rocketed upwards and was rewarded with a bigger shock than before. I landed deeply, knees bent a long way, and was fucked again by the twin invaders.
It was a vicious circle of the worst kind. Every action sparked a stronger reaction than before, and it took all my power to bring it under control and find the speed and height of jump that minimised the shocks and the invasions. But still, it was more than I could handle. My world contracted to bounds of the leather and latex that held me to this infernal, maddening, exhausting, humiliating contraption… I jumped, and jumped, and screamed into the gag and the hood as the world span round me, and I went round and round on the rail like some dumb fairground ride. Inside, I was continually reamed by the dildo and plug, and shocked at the apex of every jump; pure willpower alone kept me going. I couldn’t give up the formula, not even now… please, please, let me take it…
I’d lost count of the number of laps I’d done long before I broke. It felt like hundreds; it felt like hours. Finally, as I came round to the point of the rail that was closest to the door into the warehouse, I began to shout and scream into the gag. I could see him inside, sitting down and reading something. I didn’t care any more, no formula was worth even one more hop on this devilish machine. Defeated and despairing, I cared only for release.
Devastatingly, he didn’t hear me – or chose not to hear me. As I was pulled helplessly round onto another lap, I lost control of myself in more ways than one. As the tears flooded down my face, I lost the rhythm of jumping and slipped once more into the high, helpless jumps that sent me rocketing up and down, hitting a long, body-racking orgasm before I’d even gone a quarter of the way round. The machine now owned every inch of me.
I came back round to where he now stood outside, and weakly began to shout again into the gag and the hood, imploring him with my eyes, mind still blurry from the treacherous orgasm. This time, he heard, and he turned the motor off. The machine slowed to a halt, and I slumped to my knees, still held upright by the poles I was harnessed to, and the stiff bindings that covered my entire body.
When I finally opened my eyes, he was kneeling in front of me, watching my face. He reached forwards and began to unbuckle the collar, hood and gag that kept me silent. Pulling my head free, my sweat-drenched hair straggled in the breeze.
‘Inverse ratio of potassium…’ I began, then stopped, my mouth dry, my jaws stiff. I licked my lips and began again, reciting the entire formula like a mantra. My voice was dull, my spirit weighed down with defeat, but my body exhulted in its release. It had won.
When I’d recited the whole thing, I closed my eyes and lowered my head.
Nothing happens. Slowly, the realisation that something is wrong filters through to my addled brains. I look back up at you, and noticed that you haven’t written it down or recorded my voice or anything.
‘It’s one o’clock,’ you say, in an unfathomable tone. ‘You’re an hour too late.’
For a minute, two minutes, I stare in incomprehension. You show me your watch, the one I bought you for your birthday, and I see the proof written in front of me. One hour past the deadline for challenges to the multi-million pound patent. Slowly, I begin to realise that I’ve won. I’ve held out for long enough – a hour too long, even – for my revelation to be of any use to you or your company.
‘I did it,’ I whisper, and begin to smile faintly.
Elation of spirit battles for control with exhaustion of body. As you start unbuckling me from the harness, I kneel in a daze, overcome by my intense experience at your hands.
Eventually, you have freed me completely, and I lie naked on the ground drinking in the sensations. You, my lover, who works for a rival company that desperately wants the formula; you, who appeared suddenly in my office two nights ago armed with chloroform. My darling, my challenger, the embodiment of my dark side, who regularly ropes me to the bedposts and dreams up weird and wonderful ways of delving into my sexuality.
You lift me in your arms and kiss me warmly, then carry me into the building that you must have rented, and upstairs into a makeshift bedroom with a pallet bed in a wooden walled room. You put me down, and lie down next to me, and hold me tighter than any of your ropes or chains.
Eventually, I surface enough to speak.
‘Would you have given them the formula?’ I ask, genuinely wondering. You’ve kept up the intense reality of the game so well I believed you were really trying to drag it from me. I was almost, almost convinced it was real.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ you reply, stroking my hair. ‘I didn’t think I would at first. I thought I could break you a lot faster, but when you kept resisting a red mist descended. I tried everything to get it from you. But still you held out.’ You kiss me, admiringly, but I can sense your frustration.
‘One day,’ I whisper, ‘you’ll conquer my very soul. You came damn close today.’ I snuggle closer, the aches and pains of your ministrations a dull background.
‘One day,’ he promises, and I see the flash in your eyes that draws me to you like a moth to a flame – getting deliciously burnt every time.
We sleep, and both go back to work the next week. Me, to a company rejoicing
in its discovery and a pay rise for all; you, to a company that came within
an hour of winning the prize for itself.
By Jezziebelle –an off-beat romantic…